


The Cinder Man

by joannabelle



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Cry-lo Ren, Death, General Ginger, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Sex, Top Hux, post-TFA, sorry Hux ilu bb but I just can't fight these feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/pseuds/joannabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are a travesty,” Hux informs the younger man, though Ren’s eyes are tightly closed, and Hux takes a few seconds to absorb the expression on his face – the tight knit of his brow and the plump lips that seems far too lush to be hid behind a mask.  </p><p>He is a dead man, and he knows it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cinder Man

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dude, I don’t own Star Wars.  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warnings: Sex, language, and the distinct lack of rock-n-roll & drugs. This fic is mean.  
> Notes: This is the only Star Wars movie I’ve ever seen, and I’m only on my first watch. Still trying to get a feel for the characters, so this is take one.

* * *

  
  
The silence of space is a sound so endless it hums like a wasp at the ears.  
  
Once when he was five, Hux heard the sound of an oak tree rustling in the wind as he stood barefooted in clay dirt upon the waterfront, his small toes dug under the surface.  His father had been in meetings that day, upon some forlorn little planet Hux had no idea of the name, and the memory is but a snippet, the rest of that year lost into the deepest recesses of his mind – yet for some reason the sound had stuck with him like glue.  
  
He does not know why he thinks of it now twenty years later with his boots clad flat upon the metal flooring of the starship and his hat perched straight and untouchable upon his head – though he has a feeling that the blood that dribbles down his leg may have something to do with it.  
  
It is Kylo’s.  
  


* * *

  
The day of the D'Qar besetment is to be his largest glory – or this is what he had reasoned.  
  
Sitting in his quarters Hux is no longer sure it is the case.  
  
Well, no, he is entirely sure – it is most certainly _not_ the case.  His fingers tremble, and there is the steady muffled clipping of boots that keeps breaking his focus, drifting from the small crack of space underneath his door.  He wants for the briefest second nothing more than to jolt out of his seat and slam his coat across it, jam it into the furthest recesses of the gap and stuff it until he can’t hear anything; but he holds back on the urge, never one to let himself loose.  He has far more control.  Yes, control: which is the precise reason he has not moved in the last two hours, and his holocom is flashing blue from across the room unanswered for the same.  
  
It is not that his feet are dead and his legs are made of stone, nor is it the prospect that shifting a muscle right now might snap something integral inside of him, something already brittle and unable to repair.  
  
His face, still, is made of chalk, and Hux comes to slow realisation as he stares unfocussed at the wall that he is still sitting here in them, and that the smell that tangs up his nostrils like copper is not his imagination – he really still is covered in Kylo’s blood and it soaks into his clothes, and perhaps he should wash them.  Perhaps he should wash himself.  
  
There is a niggling irritation now that sits somewhere below his breastbone, a small thing that taps along his ribcage from underneath.  He squashes it down with a swallow that sees his eyes blink, as his head tilt towards his holocom.  
  
Perhaps …  
  
He shakes himself – mentally, some small shudder that runs right along his fingertips and catches down his spine.   
  
No.  
  
It does no good focussing on the loss.  And besides, Ren will be fine; it is himself he should be worried about.  Snoke is not going to take this lightly, and all the burying in the world will not dig him away from the consequences.  
  
He might as well … _Well_.  
  
He might as well wash.  
  


* * *

  
Two days later, the thing that gets him out of the room is nothing short of an explosion of alerts upon his holocom.  
  
He has been hiding, though Hux bites the thought back with a vicious fury as he dresses in haste, shaking the creases out of his greatcoat as though they are real – as though they are actually there despite the garment having spent the last two days hung across his desk chair, despite the effort he had put into even _pressing_ his _shirt_ , and –  
  
The alert repeats, loud, bypassing his volume settings, and Hux growls like a wolf as he snatches the holocom from its position next to his monitor, and rips out of the room.  
  
Another tantrum, despite it all.   
  
He is past his wits end, and Kylo will suffer for it, if Hux has to tear his wounds back open with his own two hands.  
  


* * *

  
He finds Ren in the medic ward, though not as he’d imagined.  
  
The wires of the alert monitors are strewn across the floor, in what is clear to Hux to have been a recent addition to the décor.   
  
Kylo’s face, however, surprises him.  
  
“I want them out!” The boy yells, and the tears in his eyes startle Hux even as Kylo reaches to his bedside unit to grab at his oxygen monitor and hurl it across the room.  
  
“You know Ren, some people grow out of this behaviour by age five – when did you say you were born again?”  
  
It’s ridiculous, really.  That after four years of living on board with the histrionic Vadar-wannabe Hux realises his staff are still incapable of calming down an over-grown toddler having a tantrum.   
  
But then, on second thought – the sneaky voice that lurks in the back of his head whispers, in a dulcet hush that washes down Hux’s shoulder blades and fills him with ice – it is not as though they ever experienced it themselves, considering the program.  
  
And on third thought – one he tries even harder to contain – it is not as though Ren has ever heard the word no, thanks to Snoke.  
  
The glare that is turned upon him almost gives Hux a surprise, as invisible hands reach to grab around his throat.  
  
“If you do not let me out of here,” Ren hisses, now, his eyes cloudy, black, and glazed. “I will burn this ship down, and you will be the first to go General, I promise you.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake Kylo,” Hux spits through the chokehold that is turning his face pink, though he refuses to give Ren the satisfaction of asking to be let down. “they’re trying to help you, you whingy fuck. Stop being a royal prick and let them heal your face. God knows it’s misshapen enough already.”  
  
Lies.  Kylo’s face is perfect, and Hux wants to lick the scar from nose to forehead.  He deepens his sneer as Ren’s invisible hands clench down harder upon his larynx.  
  
“Let me go.”  
  
“Let _me_ go, you overgrown infant.  I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but choking me is the last thing that should be on your list right now. _Considering_.”  
  
Considering: you just got your ass handed to you by a trash-scavenger from planet nothing who did not even know about her power until she landed on our ship.  Considering: you lost, Kylo, and doesn’t it just _sting_ –  
  
“ENOUGH!”  
  
“Then stay out of my head.” Hux rasps, unable to keep the satisfaction from creeping up his cheekbones in a twitching smirk that shudders his nose into two slits, a serpent’s face.  Kylo’s _favourite_ , and he looks the other man dead on as his vision starts to shatter.  
  
He catches the briefest glance of unbridled fury and something else that lingers behind Ren’s blink-less glare, some curling, softened thing that Hux is not entirely unsure his brain isn’t just making up – a cool look, one that rustles in the wind – before the room twists on him entirely and his brain can think no more.  
  


* * *

  
In the end Kylo gets what he wanted, much to Hux’s disgust.  Much to Hux’s complete lack of surprise, however, and how is it that he finds himself here helping a limping, grizzling Ren make his way on foot to his quarters only a half hour after he himself woke up on the dirty floor of a medic room, his lips pressed open on the tiles?  
  
He needs to shower.   
  
Ren is heavier than he expected, though perhaps Hux should have.  Two inches and daily combat training were now, he supposes, quite enough to make the difference between an easy trek and a sore back.  
  
“God, do you ever stop projecting?” Ren bitches from his right, the words spitting out of him like a blister, like something foul he caught between his teeth.  
  
“And I already told you, stop fucking dipping your fingers in and you wont have to hear, will you.”  Hux stops them both, repositions.  “It’s not my fault you’re desperate and no one speaks to you in the halls.”  They are nearing the last corridor.  “Try asking some fucking questions sometime, works wonders – ”  
  
And then, it is over.  Some deep ringing in his ears that increases like the blasting scream of a missile test, and they are crumpling – both of them – to the floor of the hall as Hux’s legs give way and the tapping in his chest doubles with the impact.  The voice that merges between his ears is distinctive – catlike, spoken as though through clay –   
  
_Report to me, alone, at first hour tomorrow.  Settle the boy._  
  
“Hux.”   
  
A slap, something skittering across his cheek. The brush of fingers – an uncovered hand.   
  
“Hux.”   
  
Another slap, but this time, a groan.  
  
“Come on, I didn’t choke you that hard, what the hell is your problem?  If you were only bringing me out here to drop me you could have just declined the invitation.”  
  
Hux wakes.  
  
And well, it is a bad sign – he supposes: face up on the floor.    
  
This means Snoke is _pissed_.  Hux knows an intentional assault when he wakes up on the ground after one, and especially after the second time in less than an hour.  This has got to be some sort of record.  He wonders, briefly, if he has hit a new low.  Generals do not tend to suffer so many direct attacks on their base in such a short progression, particularly – Hux thinks – those made by internal comrades.   
  
Not that Snoke is a comrade.  
  
Nor, he supposes with distaste, is Ren, really.  No: Ren is something else entirely.   
  
Hux glares up at him, hard as he can manage.  The softness in Ren’s eyes has increased.  He is imagining things.   
  
“Get off me.”   
  


* * *

  
They make it to the room in some kind of tangle, Hux’s arms tucked around Ren’s bandaged waist and for some inexplicable reason neither seems keen to acknowledge, Ren’s hand curled in Hux’s hair.  
  
It is a parody now, and Hux can hear the calling rush of the wind along the waterfront as Ren’s fingers across his ear taste like the powdery punch of silt.  His head hurts, in a swollen throb from where he hit it on the floor.  
  
In a way he is relieved when they reach the bed and Ren pulls them both down upon the mattress, some odd tetris of limbs and short breaths and the scent of dried blood that still sticks to Hux’s tongue.  
  
“You are a travesty.” Hux informs the younger man, though Ren’s eyes are tightly closed, and Hux takes a few seconds to absorb the expression on his face – the tight knit of his brow and the plump lips that seems far too lush to be hid behind a mask.  And with that disconcerting thought, Hux pushes himself off the cot, quite prepared to leave and never come back: to prepare for Snoke’s summons, sign off from his holocom.  
  
He is a dead man, and he knows it.  The something that taps inside his chest beats ever harder, and Hux can feel his final hours slipping from his fingers like oil; the remnants just a film, just some slimy residue yet to wash off.  
  
“Come here.” Ren mumbles from his position on the bed, in which his head lies loose upon the mattress proper, having missed the pillow laid just to his right.  
  
“I have orders.”  
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
“I have –”   
  
The kiss is slimy; and Hux’s breath pushes out of him in a hiss so reminiscent of a snake that he is forced to rush the next one in, sucking in the air between Kylo’s teeth like a thief, some freckled robber that grips into Kylo’s hair and slides his tongue across a row of perfect gum.   
  
Everything about Ren is perfect.  Hux thinks he hates him for this now more than ever.   
  
He pushes forward on the bed, knees settling around Kylo’s waist and presses himself hard against Ren’s chest, hears him gasp.   
  
He does it again, more frantic this time, as Kylo shrinks under his hands and Hux is gripped in some sort of sudden fury – some unbridling possession that seethes out his fingertips as he digs his nails into Ren’s sides and thrusts himself atop him.   
  
“Fuck.”   
  
“Have some fucking patience.”  _I know you’re in pain._  
  
He considers ripping Ren’s shirt apart with his teeth then, though the boy is panting in such a state under his lips that Hux wonders whether it will be the final straw, the one thing that breaks Kylo’s stitches back open, and then this whole thing will be over, and they will have to stop.    
  
And he does not want to stop, somehow, and the taste of it is burning down his throat.   
  
So instead, Hux settles for the next best thing and leaves Kylo’s shirt on and sinks to his knees in front of the bed.   
  
Hux fucks him like this: with Ren’s shirt twisted across his abdomen, legs folded in the air.  He does not bother to lie down for it, preferring the rough thrusts in a hunch leaning over the bed, his boots still laced and pressed up from the floor.  Still standing; as though lying down would mean something.  As though lying down would mean he is not dying tomorrow and the breaths from Kylo’s lips were all he needed to hear.   
  
As it is, Hux fucks him like a concubine, his ass clenching with every thrust that sends Kylo skidding across the mattress, Ren’s hands tangling in the sheets for something to cling on to – though Hux can see him eyeing Hux’s hips from between the half-mast of his eyelids.   
  
“This is not what you want it to be, Ren.” Hux grunts, grabbing at Kylo’s legs to press him wider, repositions himself until he earns a whimp, a short cry and _there_ , he hits it again: “Just accept it and let go.”   
  
So Ren lets go.   
  


* * *

  
They dress without a word.  Hux’s fingers are numb upon his buttons and the wound on Kylo’s chest is deepening in red – though it is the one on Ren’s face, instead, that now bleeds in a dribble down the curve of his cheek.  
  
In some far-gone part of Hux’s mind, he notes it almost resembles one long tear.  A tear of blood; and he huffs out a laugh as he sees Kylo’s eyes flicker to his lips.  How fitting.  
  
Turning, he focusses instead on straightening up his collar.  There are bite marks there, pattered down his neck, and they are not quite hidden by the fabric.  Hux supposes it does not matter.  Not to mention, he does not really mind.  No.  
  
But it is as he moves at last towards the doorway – feet flat and really, now, prepared to _leave_ ; prepared to let this become but a memory he can drown in a bottle of brandy and reminisce in for the remainder of the night – that Hux feels it.  A whisper of fingers that brush down along his nape.  It is as though Kylo is reaching to him with some part of himself Hux is sure the boy does not realise, that he has no clue he is even making a move.  
  
And it is _almost_ enough – Hux _almost_ swings round and storms the man, plasters him back upon the bed and grabs his hair and screams at him to _run_ – but then they track along his collar and bump the bruise there in a snag, and that feeling is enough.  It is enough.  It jolts his mind clear in a shudder, brings him crashing back down to earth.   
  
Hux doesn't turn;  
  
And Ren doesn't push.  
  


* * *

  
On retrospect, he could have run – he supposes.  Taken a departing ship from the fleet and shot towards the nearest sun, sold them all out to the Resistance – bargaining with details of Kylo Ren’s whereabouts.  He tells himself yes, he could have run at _any_ point: that it is his pride that sees him here.  
  
He would be lying.  
  
Hux stands in the empty meeting room, and he is cold – but it is like this always.  In some ways, he feels much the same: as though this is an ordinary day, and he is an ordinary man.  Like he has not just fucked his arch rival and watched the strings of come shoot up his chest, the spasms that clenched all down his abdomen; as though he had not wanted to reach forward in the midst of it, and bury his tongue into the crevice of the scab crusting across Ren’s cheek –  
  
He pauses to take in a breath, one that shivers down his throat in a hiss and aches its way to his lungs, as Hux is filled with a sudden flash of _hope_ , with the craziest idea –  
  
That _maybe_ , somewhere across the ship Kylo might just hear him.  
  
That maybe, Kylo might burst in here right now, and _save_ him.  And that he might – and that he _might –_ .  
  
But Hux opens his eyes, and the room is empty.  Nothing but him and the unfilled void of Snoke's seat, perched vacant across the walkway.  The door is shut; and no one is coming.  
  
Hux is alone in this, just as he started.  Just as he thinks he always knew.  
  
The hologram lights up in a shiver, the hum of the energy some foul twist in his ears that reminds Hux of a scream, one that pierces long and far across the galaxy.  One that incinerates a planet with the burning force of a sun.  
  
His boots stand firm upon the steel cladding of the floor, regardless.  He fancies he could see the outline of Snoke bursting into view now even through empty sockets – that warped expression of disgust which seeps into every wrinkle on the old man's face.  Hux has memorised it.  And here he is staring, in a way, right into the face of his own father.  The look grilling, uncaring, absent, and cold.  
  
He is a dead man.  
  
Hux closes his eyes, and hears through the silence the rustle of leaves.

 


End file.
